


burn & shiver

by adreamaloud, daneorange (adreamaloud)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-21 17:11:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3700439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreamaloud/pseuds/adreamaloud, https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreamaloud/pseuds/daneorange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke knows a thing or two about running.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_last night I told a stranger about you._

_\- in spite of me, greg laswell_

 

 

On the day Clarke decides to walk out, she buys a map and a marker before boarding the first bus to anywhere, the midday sun already hot on her nape. She picks a seat at the back, sliding in right beside the window and putting her sunglasses on, plugging her ears with music, shutting off the world.

_Enough of the world for a while_ , she thinks, tapping her boots against the humming engines underneath.

Clarke knows a thing or two about running – not a lot, but she hopes it’s enough.

*

There are days she can’t look herself in the mirror – _this isn’t me,_ she thinks, washing her face over and over, like she could ever go back to the girl she once thought she was. Some nights, she still sees Finn and the look on his face when she said they were done – like she’d just put a knife to his gut, and _God,_ there are days she wishes they never started. _She_ never started.

_Ruin everything you touch, won’t you,_ she tells herself, staring at her water-wrinkled hands. Finn was a good man.

So Clarke leaves -- it’s better for everyone, even _Bellamy,_ who swears he isn’t in love with her, but then Clarke isn’t blind.

_If I run far enough, maybe I won’t see._

So Clarke runs faster.

*

_Maybe I should have taken a plane._ Clarke’s not too fond of flying; it does strange things to her insides, being in the air for too long. Besides, what’s the business of a giant metallic structure being up in the sky like that, she wonders, though she also wonders about other cities more and more, these days.

She looks around her, scanning the faces of the other passengers, wondering briefly where they’re headed – if they’re running, too, like Clarke; if they know exactly where they’re going and how to get there. The bus hums along smoothly over the long straight road, the groan of its engine steady and hypnotic. The warm afternoon sun reminds Clarke about her dead father, about their house, about her quiet paintings on the walls. About her mother’s surgeon hands; about how all her life had been spent staying put and following orders. Staying in line. How her mother loved saving lives; how she was under the impression Clarke could, too.

When Finn died, Clarke had a hand on his chest. That night, in a dimly lit alley, she had pulled the knife out of him with half a prayer in her head and her mother on the phone. Suddenly the blood was everywhere, and then it was nowhere, and so was Finn. When she thinks about that, and about how she’d told Finn they were done, and how she’d thought he’d looked like she’d just gutted him, in her head she goes: _Well, technically._

The first few nights after, all she does is laugh and cry, but mostly cry.

_This is the last time I’m trying,_ she says, ignoring Finn’s ghost.

*

She gets off at the farthest station, which sits right in the middle of a vast field. She takes refuge in the shade and stares at the bus as it disappears at a point in the distance, its sound fading until it’s gone. When she scans the terminal, it’s mostly empty, save for a handful of people, all looking similarly weary – fathers and sons splitting old newspapers; groups of boys with their backpacks; a young couple eating side by side at the diner. Clarke finds herself looking away at that, clutching her bag closer to herself, wondering when the next bus out is arriving.

The bulletin board says it isn’t due for another three hours, and Clarke just finds herself a seat right in the middle of the place, suddenly exhausted. _Am I far enough yet,_ she asks herself, staring at the patterns on the ceiling. The crisscrossing shadows that remind her of Bellamy fixing the wires at the hospital whisper the answer: _Not quite._

Apparently, no one likes traveling alone – people go with people, and in this heat Clarke finds herself more annoyed than sad. It isn’t until the next bus arrives that she notices another solo traveler – a girl her age, with a backpack much smaller than Clarke’s and a body built like an archer. _What kind of a description is that even, Clarke,_ she asks herself, reaching for her bottle of water. Night has started falling but the air is still warm and suffocating, and oddly, the girl reminds Clarke of her own thirst.

The girl sits at the far end of the terminal, under one of the dim lights, and takes out a small, worn book from her bag. Curious, Clarke picks up her own bag and walks over, trying not to be so obvious, pretending to check out the diner menu. She circles her once, twice; pacing too noticeably that the girl actually looks up from her book and tucks it away to look at her, face blank.

“Can I help you?” Her voice reminds Clarke of gravel being crushed underfoot.

“Sorry,” says Clarke, lowering her bag three seats away. “I noticed you were traveling alone.”

The girl sets her jaw, her face seemingly shutting. “Yes. Is there a problem?”

_Shit._ Clarke holds up her hands, a gesture of surrender. “That’s not what I meant,” she says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

The girl loosens her grip of her bag slowly, breathing out. “What did you mean, then?” she asks cautiously, looking at Clarke’s hands, then at her bag, still sitting three seats behind her. _How strange I must seem to her,_ Clarke thinks.

“I meant to say I was traveling alone, too.”

Squinting at her, the girl just says, “Good for you,” before returning to her book.

_The one solo traveler out here and all I get is a half-hearted encouragement._ Clarke sighs as she takes the seat beside her bag, rummaging blindly into it for a book of her own. All she finds is an old dog-eared copy of _Cat’s Cradle_ that she’s almost 75 percent certain is Finn’s.

Clarke tries to read a page before pushing it back into her bag. _Bad idea._ She fiddles with her hand before calling out to solo girl again. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” the girl says without taking her eyes off her book. “You?”

“Don’t know either,” says Clarke. She watches as the look on the girl’s face softens, a small smirk forming at the corner of her lips. “What bus are you taking?” Clarke asks.

“The next one that arrives.”

Clarke looks at her watch. “We don’t have to wait too long now,” she says. The girl shifts and crosses her legs, lips moving slightly as she reads, brows furrowed. _Stop staring_ , _Clarke_.

After a while, the girl finally asks: “You too?”

“Mhmm,” Clarke says, trying to sound like she didn’t just decide on that a couple of minutes back. “Wherever, right?”

“Right.”

The bus comes half an hour later, and Clarke looks at it with relief. Beside her, the girl stands and zips her bag back up, walking past her without a word. Clarke watches her get on the bus while tying and re-tying her boot laces, taking her time. The way she walks doesn’t look like she’s _lost._

When Clarke gets on, the bus is still somewhat empty. She breathes in and scans the empty seats, looking for the girl; she finds her tucked in the last row, reading her book by the window, aided by a fading street light. Clarke marches up to her slowly, like she does not want to startle her; not that she seems to be a girl who startles easy.

“This seat taken?” Clarke asks, clearing her throat.

“There are dozens of seats that are also not taken,” the girl points out, eyes still on her book. “Help yourself.”

“I don’t want to get stuck with some stranger for the rest of the evening ride,” says Clarke. “I _am_ helping myself.”

The girl looks up at her, stern and suspicious, but she makes room for Clarke anyhow, thumb between book pages. “And I _am_ a stranger,” she says as Clarke sits.

It is only then that Clarke realizes that they haven’t even exchanged names. “Well, then. My name is Clarke.” She keeps the offered handshake in the air for as long as necessary, looking the girl in the eye. She looks back with a measured guardedness that strikes Clarke as necessary, given the circumstances. _How long have you been alone?_ she wants to ask. _How long does it take to build a wall like that?_

After a while, the girl says: “Lexa.” Her voice is soft but her grip is strong, and Clarke is oddly comforted.

*

For hours, the bus trudges along steadily, its engine loud in the quiet of the night. Clarke’s music player is dead, and Lexa has already finished reading her book, so for the rest of the trip they have taken to looking out the window – not that they can see much in the dark. Lexa does not seem to mind, but _Clarke –_ she’s going out of hers.

“This is insane,” Clarke begins. “What are we even doing?” Lexa shrugs and says nothing; she does not even turn her head. “ _Lexa._ ”

“What?” Lexa’s tone is curt and clipped and impatient.

_Impatient?_ Clarke thinks, aghast. _I haven’t even done anything._ “Say something.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to hear something other than my thoughts.”

Lexa actually smirks, the edge of her lips curling. “I have nothing to say.”

_Fine._ Clarke moves to stand, a hand on the back of the seat in front of her, the other around the strap of her backpack. “Okay then.” She tries not to make a sound as she struggles to get out of their row.

Halfway through the effort, Lexa touches Clarke’s arm and says, “Stay.” It comes out like she’s ordering an unruly pet. She rubs briefly at the underside of Clarke’s arm before scooting back toward the window, tugging at her lightly before pulling away.

Clarke turns to her, still incensed, but she sits back down anyhow, dropping her bag on the floor. “ _Fine._ ”

“You’re mad that I have nothing to say.”

“I’m not mad,” Clarke says, exhaling. “Why don’t you want to talk to me?”

“About what?”

 “Anything.”

Lexa lets out a small, noncommittal sound that Clarke could interpret loosely as a laugh. Sort of. “It’s late,” she just says. “We can talk in the morning.”

_In the morning._ Clarke feels a tinge of the unexpected at the phrase – _Is this hope?_ she thinks, fiddling with the strap of her watch. She hasn’t felt this _hopeful_ in a while, and the sensation is nearly unfamiliar.

Something more familiar though: This drowsy haze. The day has been long and hot and _exhausting_ beyond explanation, and inside her skin Clarke starts feeling the creaking in her weary bones. She closes her eyes for a bit and yawns.

The last thing she remembers is the image of Lexa staring out the window, her elbow propped on the sill.

*

The next Clarke knows, it’s already light out, and she finds herself waking off Lexa’s shoulder. It’s still warm, the bus is still moving, but Lexa is solid as ever. _Did she even sleep?_

“Sleep well, Clarke?”

Clarke pushes off her, touching her nape, feeling for knots. “I slept all right,” she just says. “Thank you.” Lexa shrugs, her eyes on the world outside. “And you?”

“A bit,” says Lexa. “The next pit stop is an hour away.”

Clarke stretches, using the movement as an excuse to brush against Lexa, slow and lazy like a cat. She leans closer against her, trying to peer out the window. Outside, everything looks the same – fields of yellowing grass, an entire endless stretch of them, with this dusty asphalt road cutting through it all. When Clarke first left, she thought she’d see different, beautiful things – sights unimaginable, mountain peaks, exotic flowers, maybe even the sea. A forest covered by moss. She expected all sorts of things, but not this – a dry expanse of quiet.  

Lexa clears her throat and Clarke’s trail of thought is broken.

“Sorry,” Clarke whispers, her mouth dry. She thinks about drinking, but then she remembers just how far the pit stop is, still. She licks her lips instead. “I was just wondering what you were staring at.”

“I see nothing,” says Lexa. “You have never been in these parts before?”

Clarke shakes her head. “And have you?”

“A few times,” she says. “They have never changed.”

Clarke just nods, wondering what a girl like Lexa is doing traveling regularly through a place like this. _Is she going home? Is she visiting someone?_ Clarke blinks. _Don’t be ridiculous and intrusive._ “How much longer until the terminal?”

Lexa looks down at her hands, fingers moving like she’s counting. “Six to seven hours.” And then, off the flabbergasted look on Clarke’s face: “You didn’t really plan this through, did you?”

For the first time since embarking on this trip, Clarke feels truly embarrassed; like she had just been exposed as a fraud. _But why? Am I pretending to be anything to begin with?_ “No,” she says, remembering the map in her bag. “The most planning I did was buying a map.”

And Lexa actually laughs – a sound so seemingly out of place that it actually throws Clarke. “A map?” Lexa repeats, still smiling. “Whatever would you need that for?”

Clarke smiles back in kind, reaching into her bag and pulling it out, now folded and creased in strange places. “I just thought I’d feel better if I were traveling with one,” she says, rolling it up and handing it to Lexa, a blush on her cheeks.

Lexa opens it, studying the panels curiously and holding the whole outstretched thing closer to her face, like she’s examining the accuracy of its roads. “What were you hoping to find?” Lexa asks. “By going out here. What were you trying to accomplish?”

For a moment Clarke is overwhelmed by the trillion ways she could answer that question. “I was just done,” she says after a while. “The old place no longer held anything.”

Lexa just nods at her like she’s saying _I know exactly how you feel,_ and in the split-second their eyes meet Clarke thinks she sees a vision of the weight Lexa’s bearing. _Bear it so they don’t have to,_ Clarke remembers telling Bellamy before she left. She’s not even sure he understood.

“What about you?” Clarke asks, and just like that the moment is broken, and Lexa’s looking away, closing the door.

_Fuck,_ Clarke thinks, breathing out; she hadn’t even realized she was holding it.

The bus slows to a stop not long after, their seats lurching at the surprisingly rough road. Lexa’s hand shoots out as she steadies herself against the seat in front of her, whereas Clarke’s finds Lexa’s forearm and _grips_.

_Sturdy,_ Clarke thinks, as she hears the bus doors open, its hinges sighing. “Washroom,” she murmurs, grabbing her bag quickly and heading for the door, wiping her hand against the back of her jeans.

Clarke shivers as she runs her hands under the water, and she feels a long breath leave her as she splashes some on her face. The washroom is dim and damp but it’s a welcome sight to Clarke, who reaches out to rub the mirror clean with her wrist.

She comes away with a gash and a soft yelp. The mirror is broken and now she is bleeding. “Shit.” At the corner of her eye, she thinks she sees something, and she turns her head, slowly.

“You’re hurt.” It’s Lexa emerging from one of the stalls. “Let me see.”

Clarke’s wrist throbs, burning lightly as Lexa peers down at it, holding it up with both hands. While Lexa never struck her as completely rough, this gentleness is just as disconcerting. Clarke starts pulling away, for a moment frightened – _I am right here and I am split open and I am far away from home –_ but Lexa tightens her hold and says, “I have medicine. I can fix this but I need light.”

Clarke nods and follows her, her wrist in Lexa’s hand.

*

Lexa wraps her up carefully and Clarke hisses and whimpers though she is not entirely sure if it is purely from the pain.

*

Lexa is wrong; the next terminal is only five hours away. The stinging in her wrist keeps Clarke awake throughout the ride, and Lexa stays quiet through most of it, though now she feels much more relaxed to the touch. Like when Clarke leans against her, her body now somewhat _caves,_ Lexa’s minutest of movements enveloping Clarke protectively.

“What were you thinking?”

Clarke blinks, surprised that Lexa finally initiates something. She stares at her bandaged arm and lets it rest against Lexa’s thigh. “I needed to see myself,” says Clarke. Out loud it sounds ridiculous and petty, but Lexa just touches Clarke’s bandages gingerly in response, smoothing out the corners.

“You came all the way out here to the desert to cut yourself open and _see yourself,_ ” she says. Not a question but a statement. “You’re a strange girl, Clarke.”

“Strange is the kindest word I can use for myself,” says Clarke, opening and closing her hand, checking for feeling and shaking off the numbness.

The bus starts slowing again, and Lexa looks out the window. “We are here.” _Here where?_ Clarke almost asks, but then Lexa is now gathering her things and looking at Clarke like she’s asking, _What are you waiting for?_

_What am I waiting for?_ Clarke blinks and grabs her bag with her non-bandaged hand, getting out of her seat. She winces as the bandages stretch with her movement and she hears Lexa murmuring, “Steady, now.”

This terminal is huge and oddly out of place. Out here in the middle of the desert, it looks like a stranded spaceship that landed wrongly. Like the others, it is also empty save for the passengers that alighted from their bus, and even then they are dispersing as quickly as they arrive, falling into arms of loved ones who take their suitcases and give them cold Cokes.

_They’re home,_ Clarke realizes, aching at the word. She looks back and the bus is gone. Night has fallen again and Clarke doesn’t know where she is.

“So. This is my stop,” says Lexa, tapping Clarke’s shoulder. “Are you going to be all right?”

“You live here,” Clarke says. Not a question, but a statement.

Lexa nods, though there is nothing definite in it. “From time to time,” she says. “I like moving.”

Clarke looks around – hard to figure out how this place is anything other than the terminal, when one can see _nothing_ else for miles around. “I’m sorry but—moving how?”

Lexa digs her hand into a pocket, fishing out a set of keys. There’s a small smile on her face as she does so, and for the very first time Clarke actually _wonders_ just how old Lexa is. “You should come see the rest of it,” says Lexa in a low voice. “It’s not much, but there are spaces dark enough for stars.”

Something in Clarke’s chest shifts at the word. “That’s the most you’ve said to me all this time,” she says, taking a step closer.

Lexa shrugs. “Offer stands.”

Clarke pauses to think about it. Or, at least, she _pretends_ to, because – really? Lexa shifts from leg to leg, her other hand fiddling with her backpack strap; her eyes glued on Clarke’s bandages.

“Clarke?”

“Offer taken,” Clarke says. Lexa tilts her head, turning around with a silent, _Follow me._

And Clarke does – listening for the sound of metal in Lexa’s pocket and putting one foot in front of the other Clarke follows, her eyes staring at her map, tucked carelessly at the back of Lexa’s jeans.


	2. all i want

_I am on a lonely road, and I am traveling  
-joni mitchell, all I want_

 

 

Lexa is born for this; that much, Clarke can tell. Lexa maneuvers expertly through the dusty path and Clarke can only wonder just how many times she’s been here.

“You really know this place,” Clarke says.

Lexa drives with one hand on the wheel, the other hanging outside her window. In the dark, Clarke can see the faint outline of a smile. “Like the back of my hand,” she says.

Clarke reaches out of her own window, letting her hand feel the night wind. It cools as they drive away, and when she looks up, she finds that Lexa is right – the stars are out tonight. All those years living in a city where the lights had drowned them out – Clarke has forgotten just how lovely it is to sit under all of them. Almost.

“Thank you,” Clarke says, head half-out the window. “The stars are beautiful.”

“We can stop,” Lexa offers. “Almost no one uses this road.” Before Clarke can say anything, Lexa is pulling over and opening her door and looking at Clarke through her window. “Come on.”

Clarke clambers onto the back of her truck, keeping her eye on Lexa, who has her hands extended and ready, should Clarke fall. _Not a chance._ Clarke grips firmly with her uninjured hand and manages to pull herself up, foot against the top of the truck’s back tire, falling graciously onto the surface with a dull metal thud.

Off the side, Lexa lets out a little laugh before hoisting herself over, practiced and smooth. “Did you hurt yourself?” she asks.

“Only because you’re laughing at me,” Clarke says, and Lexa just laughs harder.

It’s like nothing Clarke has ever heard.

*

“You think someday we’d be able to live up there?” Clarke asks. “I mean. This planet is not going to last forever.”

“This planet will surely outlive us,” says Lexa. Clarke tears her eyes away from the sky to study Lexa’s star-illuminated profile, her pupils adjusting to the dark. “Besides. I don’t think humans can withstand the vastness. We’ll die up there, unable to take it all in.”

 _Oh,_ Clarke just thinks, though it’s not entirely because of what Lexa just said.

“Do you agree, Clarke?”

Clarke nods, humming as she shifts her eyes back upward. The sky hangs overhead, a massive blanket of pinprick light, and it makes Clarke feel small and insignificant and curiously okay. _If in the grand scheme of things nothing truly matters,_ Clarke thinks, _then why should my troubles?_

For some reason, it calms Clarke’s heart.

“You’ve grown quiet,” Lexa says.

“I just realized I probably won’t be much of a sky girl,” Clarke admits. “You’re right. I probably can’t stand it.”

“Sky girl,” Lexa says, testing the phrase on her tongue. “Nice ring to it, though.”

“You think?” Clarke asks. Lexa laughs easy now, and Clarke nudges her lightly with her bandaged arm.

“How’s your wound?” Lexa asks, tentatively reaching for it, smoothing the edges like before. Her touch is white-hot against the cool night. It makes Clarke’s head spin, somewhat.

“Starting to itch,” Clarke says, breathing deep. The air smells surprisingly sweet for such a barren-looking place, but then again when she turns her head, there is Lexa. “Thank you for the medicine.”

“It was the least I could do,” Lexa says. She pulls away and Clarke shivers. Lexa frowns. “If you’re cold, we could go. The stars always follow.”

 _That’s not what my body meant,_ Clarke almost says; instead, her mouth goes, “Yes.”

*

“I suppose you did not plan this far,” Lexa says, tone light, almost teasing. Still, Clarke has to try not to let the cold wrap around her heart at the realization. “Where were you planning to sleep?”

“I was hoping my map would tell me,” says Clarke. A half-truth – she had also expected to be able to ask someone at the terminal. Not that the terminal had a concierge, or anything, to begin with.

“Your map is all roads,” Lexa points out. “And we arrived just as the traveler desk officer left for the day.”

“Then I was hoping to sleep in the terminal then,” Clarke says. “Left without a choice, I would have.”

Lexa nods. “That would have been a cold night.”

“Well, the night’s still cold, but at least I have you,” says Clarke. And then, off the arch of Lexa’s brow: “Around, I mean. As company.” _Well, Clarke, this is truly going well._ “Thanks for letting me tag along.”

“Not at all,” says Lexa, tone unchanged, and Clarke breathes out in relief.

They drive in silence for a long stretch of poorly lit road, yet Clarke can see no sign of Lexa trying to squint through the dark. Her hand remains steady on the wheel, like she could do this with her eyes closed, and Clarke feels somewhat… _safe._

After a while, Clarke can’t tell if she’s feeling all disconcerted about it, or strangely turned on.

 _Shit,_ she thinks.

“You all right?”

Clarke nods, startled lightly. “Sorry,” she says. “I almost fell asleep.”

“We’re almost there,” Lexa just says.

Not long after, they’re pulling up near a small shack, and Lexa’s turning the engine off. “As I’ve said, it’s not much,” she says before getting out of the truck. “I hope this is okay.”

 _Are you kidding me?_ Clarke thinks, almost reaching out to touch Lexa before pulling her hand back in the end. “This is already too generous,” she says instead. “Thank you.”

There is movement inside the house, and Clarke thinks she could hear the clatter of pots and pans. _Has Lexa taken me to her family?_ A mix of excitement and dread starts swirling in Clarke’s gut. Somewhere, a kettle boils; then, there’s a woman calling out to Lexa.

“Is that you?” The voice is gruff – not motherly at all. Lexa turns her head sharply at the sound. _Okay, what is going on?_

“Yeah, it’s me,” Lexa calls back out, locking her doors. And then, to Clarke: “I’ll be right back.”

Clarke tries not to eavesdrop; _try_ , of course, being the operative word. Still, she overhears the two women talking – it all starts in whispers before escalating to something louder and more intense. The pit in Clarke’s stomach grows bigger, the bitter taste pooling at the back of her throat.

“Calm down, Indra, Clarke is a friend—”

“You’re always picking up strays, Heda—”

“Clarke _isn’t_ a stray; she isn’t lost. End of discussion.” Clarke is surprised at the tone Lexa takes with her – assertive and in charge and just like that Clarke is flustered again, her insides knotting tight. She’s still trying to sort her breathing when Lexa comes back out, her face serious.

“Is everything okay?” she asks.

Lexa nods at her solemnly. “Come inside.”

The shack is warm, and Indra stares at Clarke from the corner as Clarke comes in. Clarke tries to meet her eyes – she reminds Clarke so much of her own mother’s fierce protectiveness.

Behind Clarke, Lexa says: “ _Indra_.”

Indra breathes out, wiping the newly washed knives with dry cloth and stowing them quickly, all without taking her eyes off the two of them. Clarke holds her stare – she doesn’t understand exactly what’s going on, but she’s not about to cower either. Lexa puts a hand on the small of her back and gives her a gentle nudge, as if to herd her away.

Lexa opens the door to what Clarke assumes to be her room. It is dim, even when Lexa switches the lights on. “I should have brought a new bulb,” she says, but it’s more to herself than to Clarke. Clarke looks around – Lexa’s room is not much different than hers back home, and despite herself, Clarke feels a slight twinge at the thought.

“The bed is yours,” says Lexa. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m fine,” Clarke says. A lie, mostly, but Indra’s word _stray_ starts ringing in her ear, and it’s settled. “What about you?”

Lexa shakes her head, dropping her backpack in the corner. “Indra made dinner. I apologize for her behavior.”

“Indra’s your…”

Lexa shrugs. “Our families go a long way back,” she says. “Sometimes, she forgets she is not my keeper.”

“She called you by a nickname. What does it mean?”

The smile on Lexa’s lips is muted and exhausted. “It means nothing,” she says. “Take the bed.”

Clarke watches as Lexa closes the door behind her before breathing in deep, lowering her pack in kind at the foot of the bed. Lexa’s room is littered with dusty photo frames of younger Lexas – grinning by the lake, arms around another girl her age; posing in the middle of the field as part of a football team; with her hands raised amid twinkling lights, holding a bottle of beer. The other girl appears in other pictures – there’s Lexa and her in a toga; Lexa and her in swimsuits and sunglasses. Clarke wonders if they’re sisters, because they’re so _close_ and—

 _Oh,_ Clarke thinks, fingers brushing against the photos stuck on Lexa’s mirror – Lexa and the girl, fingers entwined. _Not sisters then,_ Clarke thinks, tracing the outline of them kissing, sun behind their heads. _What a horrible time to remember Finn._

The door swings open again and Clarke reels backward, startled at the sound. Her movement nudges a vase off a table; thankfully plastic, so there is no breakage, but still the flowers scatter on the floor.

“Sorry,” they say at the same time. Clarke looks at the flowers and then at Lexa, who’s now putting a tray of food on the bureau near the door.

Clarke goes ahead and drops to her knees, picking the flowers off the floor with both hands. “I didn’t—I’m sorry, I didn’t see—”

“If that had been breakable, I’d have to wrap you up again,” says Lexa, tone kind. She is now also on the floor with Clarke, taking her pick of the leaves. “I brought us food.” Clarke looks up, flowers still in hand; her stomach starts grumbling as if on cue. Lexa smiles. “Indra’s a bitch to dine with when she’s upset.” And then, “And I thought _you_ weren’t hungry.”

“Thought I wasn’t either,” Clarke says, trying to smile back. She’s still shaky from everything she’s found, and now her hands holding all these flowers are trembling.

“Let me get this for you,” says Lexa, covering Clarke’s hand with hers and emptying them. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m hungry,” Clarke just says, biting down on her lip.

*

They have dinner right on the floor as well, sitting with their legs tucked under them, side by side with their backs against the wall. Lexa’s window is open, and the breeze comes and goes, the curtains fluttering.

“She called you _Heda,_ ” says Clarke after finishing her plate. “What does it mean?”

Lexa’s humming as she eats; for all her vitriol, Indra _is_ a good cook. “It means I don’t leave people out to starve,” she says, smiling as she chews.

“Really?”

Lexa nods, and Clarke laughs, throwing her head back against the wall with a soft thud. “Will you always be injuring yourself around me?” Lexa asks in jest, off Clarke’s soft ‘ow’. “Also, it means ‘commander’. I was a very… _headstrong_ child.”

“I can imagine,” says Clarke. “Is that why you’re always traveling?”

“Maybe,” Lexa says, picking up their empty plates and standing. “I’m not fond of staying put.”

Lexa disappears for a while; Clarke presumes she’s out doing the dishes. Indra must be asleep, judging from the lack of conversation noises. Clarke thinks about joining her, but just as she is about to, Lexa’s walking back into the door, wiping her hands against her jeans.

“Did you need anything?” Lexa asks, confused that Clarke looked like she was about to head out. “The washroom’s at the end of the corridor – the mirror’s clean, so.” She offers another small smile and steps aside, waiting for Clarke’s move.

“Oh, I was just looking to help,” Clarke says. “Thought I could lend a hand with the washing.”

“There were a grand total of _three_ plate sets to wash. Pretty sure I had that covered.”

Clarke manages a laugh. “All right then,” she says, eyeing her wrist. The blood there has dried to a dull maroon hue, and the adhesive edges are itchy with dirt. “If you have clean bandages, I’d be grateful.”

“Oh. Of course.” Lexa walks over to her dresser and wrests a drawer open, rummaging through it briefly before coming away with a small white box labeled, ‘Emergency’ in red. Clarke hangs back, watching as Lexa studies the photos on the mirror, like she’s surprised they’re still there after all this time. “You’ve seen these photos, hmm?”

Clarke nods, unsure of what to say. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.” Clarke seats herself at the edge of the bed, carefully peeling off her bandage. She hears Lexa approach with just as careful footsteps.

“I don’t mind,” says Lexa, kneeling before Clarke, hand warm and casual on Clarke’s knee. Clarke winces; in the dark she hopes Lexa cannot see, how it is not about the wound at all. Lexa takes the dirty bandages from Clarke’s hand and lowers them to the floor, before opening the bottle of alcohol. With her other hand she unwinds the gauze slowly, wrapping them around her fingers.

“Her name is Costia,” Lexa murmurs softly as she gently dabs Clarke’s skin with antiseptic. Clarke looks up from Lexa’s hands to her face. “ _Was._ Costia,” she’s saying now, correcting herself, and _oh, so this is how it feels like, to have a knife in the gut_. Clarke tries not to make a sound. “She’s gone.”

“I’m so sorry,” Clarke says, hissing at the burning feeling of antiseptic on skin. She’s had worse, but then, this is _Lexa_. It compounds things. Lexa wraps both her hands around Clarke’s wrist and fixes the gauze in place with new adhesive, rubbing at the edges with her thumbs to smooth them out, over and over and over.  Clarke tries to keep breathing.

“It’s not your fault,” says Lexa.

“Not yours either,” Clarke says.

Lexa shakes her head, smiling sadly in the half-light. “That’s not how the story goes.”

If Clarke could pinpoint an exact moment when she thought she _could_ or she _might,_ it would be this: Here in the dark with Lexa fussing with her bandages, a knee on the floor _,_ and both hands around her forearm, gently. Lexa’s still murmuring _Costia, Costia, Costia,_ under her breath, like she’s exorcising demons. Her lips move like she’s reading something off Clarke’s skin, and Clarke just thinks: _Maybe_.

*

The light goes out, eventually, and Lexa gets up to retrieve a flashlight.

“It’s okay,” Clarke tries to say, but Lexa would hear none of it. In the end, Lexa climbs back into bed with a flashlight clutched to her chest, which she flicks on and off at the ceiling, the rhythmic _click-click-click_ mimicking a heartbeat.

The bed is small, but Clarke is smaller, and Lexa lets her huddle close to the wall, near where the open window affords her a sliver of sky. They haven’t spoken much since Lexa mentioned Costia, and to Clarke it feels like a heavy suitcase sitting on her chest. She fixes her eyes on an extra-bright star, listening for Lexa’s breathing, keeping the space between.

“I lost someone, too,” Clarke finds herself saying, eyes now on the ceiling. “His name was Finn.”

“How?”

“He got stabbed,” says Clarke, trying to be cold and factual about it. “I tried to save him, but I couldn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Clarke says, returning the phrase. Lexa’s laugh is rough and broken. “But partly mine.”

Lexa breathes in deeply. “How do you make peace?” she asks, turning off the flashlight and reaching out for Clarke in the dark.

Clarke turns to Lexa; her face is moonlit and beautiful. “I’ll let you know,” she just says, taking her hand.

*

When Clarke wakes, she’s alone in bed and Lexa is nowhere to be found. Clarke gathers her things in a panic, tossing her clothes back on and zipping her backpack shut as she scrambles to her feet. _She’s left,_ she thinks, before remembering to peer out the window. When she does, there Lexa is – she’s sitting on a rusty chair with a knee drawn up to her chest and a steaming cup in hand. Clarke feels herself relaxing as she slips into her shoes and heads out.

The morning is cool and as Clarke approaches, Lexa looks up at her and says, “Hey,” her voice hoarse like she’s been talking all night. “Did I wake you?”

“I thought you left,” says Clarke, squinting at the sun and shielding her face with her hand. “I got worried.”

“Sorry.” Lexa looks down into her cup before offering it to Clarke. “Coffee? I could go make some more.”

Clarke reaches for it, wrapping Lexa’s hands in hers. The morning sun is growing warm, but nothing quite like the feeling in her palms. Lexa rises from her seat carefully, eyes on Clarke’s, unsure smile on her lips.

“Thanks,” Clarke says, and Lexa slips away with a soft, “Just a minute,” before disappearing back into the house.

 _Something has broken here,_ Clarke thinks, sipping slowly. _But in a good way._ What are the chances that breaking is good for some things? The door swings open from behind Clarke and out comes Lexa, a fresh cup in hand and spring in her step. She approaches Clarke and starts drinking beside her, inhaling the morning air.

“What do you want to do today, Clarke?” Lexa asks, nudging Clarke with her rolled-up map.

Clarke stares at it before laughing. “I don’t know,” she says, the sound breaking out of her chest. “Take me anywhere.”

*

There’s a trail that runs right through Lexa’s backyard that she likes to revisit when she comes around. “I know these woods like the back of my hand,” Lexa says. “I could take you if you want to see it.”

Not that Clarke would ever refuse such an offer, though she takes a moment to re-tie her shoe laces before accepting, mainly for effect. Lexa mock-pouts at her as she folds up Clarke’s map and tucks it into _Clarke’s_ pocket along with the marker, the move slow and deliberate. _Revenge, is it?_ Clarke thinks, holding her breath throughout and feeling slightly lightheaded afterwards.

The trail starts off easily enough, and Lexa leads the way, occasionally looking back to check if Clarke’s following. Clarke tries not to be distracted by everything else – _this was what I left home for,_ she just thinks, trying not to touch the flowers, the shrubs. Up ahead, Lexa speeds through the path, humming to herself some vaguely familiar song that Clarke almost recognizes.

“You come to these woods a lot?” Clarke asks as she catches up with her, carefully stepping over a log to reach Lexa’s spot. She’s standing in the middle of a small clearing that is surrounded by a semi-circular arrangement of rocks. _Like a camp,_ Clarke thinks, imagining Lexa sitting here and making a fire, the sky full of stars.

“We grew up together,” Lexa says simply, extending a hand for Clarke to hold. “The woods and I.” And then: “These woods, _Costia_ and I.”

Clarke reaches for Lexa’s hand and hangs on, steadying herself with it as she negotiates through the stony path, shifting her eyes between the ground and Lexa’s face. She looks so open – like the woods are bringing it out of her for Clarke to _see._ She leaps past the last step, landing right into Lexa, an arm half-wrapped around her for support.

“Tell me about Costia,” Clarke says.

“Tell me about Finn,” Lexa replies.

*

Lexa’s story comes in staggered shards – when Lexa speaks about Costia, she gets this sad, reverent tone that breaks Clarke’s heart. At times, Lexa stops to point out some space in the woods they had marked: Faded engravings of their initials on tree barks, mostly, and once, a sketch of a face.

“I did this with this knife,” Lexa says, voice even sadder as she traces the outline of it with one hand and unsheathes the blade from the side of her boot with the other.

“She’s lovely,” Clarke offers.

“I wish I was able to truly capture her,” Lexa says, moving away.

Some of Lexa’s stories are merrier – like that time they won the football championship, or that time Costia taught her how to swim. “I was a hopeless student,” says Lexa, just as they pass by the lake that afternoon, the hour already golden. Clarke holds onto Lexa’s shoulder on the way down to the lakeshore, her breath hitching at the sight.

“I forget you’re a city girl, Clarke,” Lexa says with a smile. “You could always tell me if you want to stay a while.”

Standing finally at the lakeshore, Clarke feels her eyes widen. “Yes,” she whispers, tightening her grip around Lexa’s arm. “I want to stay a while.”

*

Lexa takes a mat out of her backpack and lays it on the ground, motioning for Clarke to sit. “We might as well,” she says, shrugging. The sun is setting now, splashing the sky with unbelievable hues.

“I wish I brought painting materials,” she says, leaning back on her elbows and keeping her eyes on the sky – now pink, now lavender, now orange. _It’s like some higher hand is making art,_ she thinks, jaw slack in utter awe.

“You’re a painter?” Lexa asks.

“Just a hobby,” Clarke says. When she moves, she feels the marker inside her pocket, and just like that, she’s taking her map out and turning it over and turning to Lexa. “Can you hold for a bit?”

Lexa furrows her brow. “Hold?”

“Mhmm,” Clarke nods, sitting up and uncapping her marker, stretching out the map facedown before her. “Like – sit still.”

“Because?”

“You’ll see.” Clarke has to squint now – night is falling quickly, and she has to finish before total darkness sets in. Lexa keeps on looking at her, confused, but she holds her pose anyhow, obedient as ever. Clarke bites down at her lip, concentrating.

“Are we done?”

“One minute,” says Clarke, laughing softly and shaking her head. “Sorry, _Heda_.”

“If this were another lifetime,” Lexa says with a mock-scowl. “This is totally inappropriate for a _commander_.”

“Then thank god this isn’t another lifetime,” Clarke says. She takes one more stroke before saying, “And we’re done.” She puts the cap back onto the marker before falling back to the mat, stretching her piece out and studying it. Like this, it looks like Lexa’s face superimposed on the map – roads and intersections lining her face.

“Can I see?” Lexa asks, voice shy.

“Sure,” says Clarke. “Come here.”

Lexa crawls right beside her, head resting against Clarke’s shoulder on the mat. “Oh,” Lexa sighs, hand reaching out to trace the surface with a finger. “You are very talented.”

“Thank you,” Clarke says, now hyperaware of just how close Lexa is. “You can keep this. A token of my gratitude.”

Lexa pushes up and sits, and Clarke follows suit, rolling up the drawing in one hand. “I can’t,” Lexa says. “It’s _your_ map.”

“And now it’s yours,” says Clarke. “Something to remember me by.” For a millisecond there, Clarke thinks she sees Lexa’s face fall. _Or maybe it’s the dusk, playing games with my eyes._

Lexa clears her throat and says, “Thanks.” She turns away to stow it before saying something about starting the fire.

*

Lexa asks gently about Finn, trying to be casual about her questions while stoking the fire. “Your turn, right?” she says, though the way she looks at Clarke tells her that she’s just as ready to back off, if Clarke wishes.

It’s not that Clarke doesn’t want to talk about Finn – it’s that she thinks what she and Finn had was _nothing_ like Lexa and Costia’s. “It was just a thing,” she begins. “Sometimes when two people struggle together, things just happen.”

Lexa nods, her eyes illuminated by the fire light. “And you loved him,” she says. Not a question but a statement.

Clarke thinks about it, mesmerized by the flames. “Yes,” she says finally. “But maybe not as much as you loved Costia.”

Lexa grows quiet at that, so Clarke takes a piece of wood and helps stoke the fire from her end. “Or maybe no two loves are comparable,” Lexa says finally. “Maybe they’re just what they are: Things that never happen twice.”

“Right,” says Clarke, tossing the piece of wood fully inside the fire, watching the flames engulf it slowly. Across her, Lexa gets up and reaches for something in her bag. Clarke just watches her move about, the leaves crunching under foot. “What’s that?”

“Something for the cold,” says Lexa, coming closer to reveal a metal flask in her hand. _Of course,_ Clarke thinks, mouth drying. _A little whiskey won’t hurt anyone._

“You truly think of everything,” says Clarke, reaching out for it as Lexa comes to settle right beside her on the mat. Lexa takes a swig before handing it over, wiping at her lips with the back of her hand.

When Clarke brings the flask to her mouth, she tries not to think about how she could be _kissing_ her (but not really). Clarke breathes in right before she drinks, the shot searing its way down her throat. “Goddamn,” she hisses before returning the flask, and Lexa reaches around to rub circles on Clarke’s back, laughing.

“Lightweight,” Lexa teases, taking another sip. “You okay?”

Clarke shoves her lightly in retaliation, laughing along. “Just out of practice.”

“Ah,” says Lexa, pushing the flask back into Clarke’s hand. “More practice then?”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “If I’m too drunk tomorrow, this is all on you,” she says. _Maybe three more rounds,_ Clarke thinks.

“We’ll walk really slowly,” Lexa says, waiting for Clarke’s shot, her eyes glistening with mischief. Clarke decides she likes this Lexa a lot – playful, tomorrow-be-damned Lexa, who just wants to get drunk by the fire. “Or if I have to carry you, I will.”

Clarke takes a swig at that, wiping at her mouth in kind. “I hope you remember all these offers in the morning,” she says.

“Some people drink to forget,” says Lexa, hand brushing against Clarke’s. “I don’t.” Her smile wavers, but only slightly; Clarke thinks she sees the shadow of it just before Lexa drinks. The to-and-fro gets shakier and sloppier with every round, and the laughter comes much easier. Clarke loses count after the fourth round – by now, there’s a pleasant glow about Lexa, and everything feels warmer and more electric. Despite the heat, Clarke still finds herself huddling closer to Lexa and the fire.

“I think this is the last shot,” Lexa says, shaking the flask briskly. There’s already a slight slur in her speech – it’s all strangely attractive, to Clarke’s mind.

“You could have it,” Clarke says.  

“No,” says Lexa, nudging Clarke’s wrist. “This is yours.”

Clarke groans, wrapping a shaky hand around the flask and bringing it to her lips, drawing from it slowly. _If this is the last one then – make it last,_ Clarke thinks dimly, watching Lexa watch her.

Something shifts in the air at that – Clarke just feels it. Suddenly Lexa’s looking at her with a hunger Clarke has never seen, and then Lexa’s leaning in and kissing her. Lexa tastes like whiskey and lake water; like old maps and empty bus stations. She’s got a hand tangled in Clarke’s hair, and for a moment too long Clarke is paralyzed by her _softness._

 _This feels nothing like Finn,_ she thinks, pushing up and straddling Lexa, shifting to allow Lexa’s hands to roam under her shirt. Her hands are cold, and Clarke tears her lips away from Lexa’s to breathe out, her face to the sky, her eyes closed.

“Is this okay?” Lexa whispers, lips nipping at Clarke’s throat.

When Clarke swallows, her mouth fills and burns with _Lexa_. “Yes,” Clarke says, dipping her head back down for a kiss, her fingers lost in Lexa’s braids.

*

Clarke wakes to the sound of Lexa humming softly to herself.

“You’re _singing_ ,” Clarke greets with a yawn. “Have you even slept?”

Lexa just smiles back, pressing a kiss to Clarke’s forehead. “It’s my watch,” she says, smoothing Clarke’s hair. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

Clarke makes a face as she gets up. “Don’t say that,” she says. “I’m awake now. Your turn.”

Lexa smiles, scooting over to rest her head on Clarke’s thigh. “My hero,” she teases, closing her eyes. “Just a few minutes, all right?”

“All right,” says Clarke, running her fingers through Lexa’s hair gently, trying to pick her tune back up. Lexa laughs for the first few bars, and Clarke playfully tugs at her hair hard in warning. “I’m trying, okay?” she says, kissing Lexa’s temple.

_I’m trying, again._

Lexa shifts and turns to her side, curling into Clarke and burying her face in her, breathing in. “It doesn’t have to be so hard,” Lexa murmurs against her, so Clarke just keeps on humming and stroking Lexa’s hair, her heartbeat steady.

 _Just two girls in a forest,_ Clarke reminds herself. _It doesn’t have to be so hard._

_#_


End file.
